


Twenty-Six Minutes

by simplysunshine



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bad Parenting, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fights, Goodbyes, Hospitals, M/M, Major Character Injury, Poor Life Choices, References to Drugs, Suicide Attempt, Teenagers, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 22:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18600580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplysunshine/pseuds/simplysunshine
Summary: Twenty-six minutes.That’s how long they say I have left to live before they pull the plug. It’s not much time if you really think about it, but I can remember thinking it was forever while sitting in AP English with Mrs. Jenkins. Then again, time always seemed to drag when that woman was around. Man, could she talk.





	Twenty-Six Minutes

Twenty-six minutes.

That’s how long they say I have left to live before they pull the plug. It’s not much time if you really think about it, but I can remember thinking it was forever while sitting in AP English with Mrs. Jenkins. Then again, time always seemed to drag when that woman was around. Man, could she _talk._

My family mills in and stands in a circle around the bed, watching me with their critical, piercing eyes. It’s almost creepy if I’m being honest—like they’re about to perform some ritualistic chant or something.

My dad stands stoically holding my mom in his arms as she sobs into his shirt. He’s trying to be strong but his eyes still shine with unshed tears—I’d bet my signed Packers jersey that they never fall from his eyes. My little brother, only two years old, looks around the room from my grandma’s arms, sucking his thumb and taking everything in with wide eyes—so lucky that he’ll never remember me or this day. My parents would be paying out of their asses for his therapy otherwise.

One day he’ll know, though; they’ll have to tell him the story of how his brother died. I almost feel bad for him—almost—but he’ll be fine. They’ll dote on him like they never did on me and he’ll forget why he was ever sad, to begin with.

My boyfriend is here, too. I wish he wasn’t—he shouldn’t have to see this—but at the same time, I knew nothing and no one could keep him from saying goodbye—especially after what happened the last time I saw him. I know he blames himself for this, but he shouldn’t. It’s not his fault. His face doesn’t reveal any emotion but his hands shake like they always do when he’s trying to hold herself together.

It’s the strangest thing; being able to see them from outside my body while they all look down at my comatose form in the bed. My mom pulls herself together long enough to look up at my dad.

Her voice trembles in a way I’ve only ever heard when she’s about to lose her temper—which, honestly, was more often than not with me. “Would you mind if I had a few minutes alone with our boy?” Dad sucks in a sharp breath before looking at my grandma, then back to my mom and nodding. She turns towards me and sits in the chair next to my bed while everyone else moves out of the room. Castiel—my boyfriend—hesitates for a moment at the door, looking back at the bed with desperate eyes before seeming to force himself to turn away.

Mom is squeezing my hand. I can’t feel it, but the tension in her knuckles lets me know I’d probably have bruised fingers if I were to live long enough for them to appear. It’s strange, this space between life and death.

Tears drip onto the sheets as my mom struggles to pull herself together and I boost myself up onto the side of the bed, crossing my ankles and leaning back with my arms stretched out behind me. I watch with mild curiosity, waiting to see what she could possibly have to say.

“I…just once? Couldn’t you have listened to me? I told you, Dean. I _told_ you not to leave. But what do I know, right?” She sniffles loudly with a look in her eyes that says, _I’m always right but no one ever believes me until I’m proven right._ Yeah, she has a look that says all that. I roll my eyes and snort. She can’t even manage to say something nice when I’m dying.

“Those damn friends of yours…always such bad influences. I raised you to be a good kid. I did everything right so this mess is on them.” Her voice chokes with tears. I look back at my hands on the bed and notice that they’re resting _in_ my legs. Huh.

“What were you boys even doing that far out of town? And in that area of all places? What is _wrong_ with you?” Her voice gets high and strained and I flopped back, sinking clean through the cast on my leg and waiting patiently for this little _show_ to be over.

I sigh, exasperated when she starts sobbing again. “Wow, such _fantastic_ parenting! Sure, blame my friends because there’s _absolutely no way_ it was _my_ idea.” I roll my eyes, half glad and half disappointed that she can’t hear me.

She cries for a few more minutes, soaking the hospital gown with her tears and making sure that everyone on our floor can hear her wailing.

I breathe a relieved sigh when my dad walks in. He rests his hands on Mom’s shoulders, giving them a light squeeze while he whispers in her ear. She takes a deep breath and nods before leaving the room. Dad takes her place in the chair beside the bed. He doesn’t cry like Mom. Real men don’t cry. At least, that’s what he’d tell me if I were conscious. _Real men don’t cry, Dean. They take it like a man._ What the hell does that even mean?

He sits there in silence for a long time. I can almost feel his frustration at not being able to say what he wants to say. He won’t say it because he knows he won’t get a reaction.

“You know, Dean, I get it. You had to stand up for yourself. You didn’t shy away from your problems and I’m proud of you for that.” He pauses and takes quick breaths to hold back the tears. God forbid, a man would _cry_ when his son is dying. “But why…why there? Why so far out of town?” I sit up, swinging my legs back and forth as I stare at him.

As I watch, a single tear escapes, sliding down his cheek before he swipes at it. He’s on his feet in a second, pacing back and forth with one hand on his greying hair and the other on his hip. He looks over at the bed and stops, turning to face me as he yells. Does he think if he yells loud enough, I’ll flinch? Give him something— _anything_ —of a reaction? Maybe shrink into myself a little? He always loved when I did that as a kid. Or…well, as an almost adult. He just loves to yell at me.

“You had a future! You were going places and you threw it all away for a stupid fight! Probably over—I don’t know—a stupid comment he made. Or you made; you never did have a very good filter on that mouth of yours. Did he bruise your ego? Is that it?”

I huff out a breath and roll my eyes. “No, Dad, despite what you think, not everything is about my ego.” I wish it _were_ because the truth is so much worse. Not that he’d believe the truth if I were awake to tell him. Thank God for small miracles.

He stands there for a while, just glaring at the bed. It’s almost like he’s daring me to wake up and say something. _Well, today’s your lucky day, Daddy-o. You won’t be getting any backtalk from me—at least, none that you can hear._ He pivots on his heel and storms out of the room without looking back. I shrug—he always was one for dramatic exits. I guess that’s what makes my parents so good together—all the theatrics make their lives interesting and mine, hell.

I take this moment of peace to look at my body. There’s a neck brace holding my head straight and a tube that looks entirely uncomfortable lodged in my throat—a ventilator, I think it’s called. My leg has a big clunky cast on it and I have a brace on my arm. I guess they decided to save the plaster when they realized the hemorrhaging in my brain was too severe and there wasn’t anything they could do to save me. Tufts of dirty-blonde hair stick out under the bandage that’s holding my brains in and blood coats the roots, making it look wet and sticky. My face is barely recognizable. Black and blue and swollen. They actually went as far as to stitch up the cuts on my face. I guess they have lots of suturing material kicking around.

There are tubes and wires in what seems like every inch of spare skin on my body. I’m like a human pin cushion for God’s sake. I sit in the chair beside the bed and kick my feet up on the edge. My grimy sneakers don’t even make a smudge on the crisp white sheets. I scowl, scraping the dirt off one shoe with my toe. It just falls to the ground and disappears.

A sniffle from the doorway has me turning my head to see my grandma standing there and my feet immediately drop to the floor. I pause, tilting my head as I think about what I just did. Old habits die hard I guess. She walks over to the chair, not looking away from the bed the whole time. I’m so busy watching her that it doesn’t actually sink in that she’s going to sit on me until she’s lowering into the chair. I scramble to my feet, looking at her with all the offense I feel written on my face. Yeah, yeah—I know she can’t _actually_ see me, but still.

She shakes her head as she takes my hand in hers. “Your grandfather died in this hospital, you know. On this floor actually, just a few rooms down.” She sniffles again and strokes my hand with her thumb. “He used to fish under that bridge before it started to fall apart. That bridge…that’s a hundred-meter drop from the top.” She shakes her head again but doesn’t say anything for a while.

When she does finally say something, it’s not what I expect. “They found drugs in your system. So many drugs…My grandson doesn’t _do_ drugs. _My_ grandson is a good boy.” Her voice hits notes only dogs can hear, but I’m just as confused as she is because she’s right—I _don’t_ do drugs. Nothing other than my prescription pills anyway, but even _those_ I haven’t taken in at least a week or two.

Maybe…did someone slip something into my drink? The guys we were hanging out with _are_ pretty shady. Maybe one of them drugged my beer? Maybe that’s why…

“Your mom is a wreck, you know. She can’t stop crying for even a moment. Sammy doesn’t know what's going on but he cries off and on. He’s only two; he doesn’t know what he’s crying for, but he loved you so much. I hate to think what your parents will have to do when he realizes you’re not around anymore.”

A light knock comes from the door and we both turn our heads in that direction. Cas stands there with a sad smile on his face.

“Hello, dear.” She waves Cas over and clasps his hand when he reaches the side of the bed. “This must be so hard for you.” I watch as Cas nods, but he doesn’t say anything, looking as awkward as he always does around old people. After a few seconds of silence, Grandma stands and leans over the bed to kiss my forehead before turning and leaving the room.

Cas sits in the empty chair, pulling it a little closer so he can rest his head beside my hand. His tears drip onto the sheets but he doesn’t make any sound. He takes a shaky breath and squeezes my hand. Out of everyone, it’s his pain that hurts me the most.

“You’re such an idiot.” A small, sad laugh escapes him but there’s no humor in it. “I was dealing with it. You didn’t have to…you didn’t have to do that.”

I place my hand on his head. It doesn’t go through his like it does with my body, but I still can’t feel him. “Yes, I did. What he did to you…” I swallow hard and crouch down beside him so we’re eye to eye. “I had to do something; I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t.”

“I should’ve gone with you. I should've been there.” He wipes his tears with my hand and squeezes his eyes shut tightly.

“You didn’t need to see it. He took enough from you already. He’s done enough damage.” I move my hand and rest it on top of the one holding mine.

“I could’ve stopped you. Stopped _him,_ Dean. He took you from me. The _worst_ thing he took from me was you. The rest of it seems so small in comparison. He…he pushed you off a bridge! He _stole_ you from me. This is so much worse than what he did to me.” Sobs wrack his body and he buries his face in the sheets.

I close my eyes as an ache forms in my chest. _My sweet Cas._ At one time I swore I was going to marry him, but things change. Life stops and the world keeps moving forward.

“At least he fell, too. I’ll never have to see him again, knowing he lived and you didn’t.” He stands up and I do, too. “That would’ve been the worst thing to happen, I think.” He leans forward and presses his lips to the corner of mine as he runs his fingers through my hair. God, I wish I could feel him touch me. Just one more time. “Goodbye, my love.”

I take it back. I want to take it all back. I don’t want to die—I want to marry my sweet boy and have kids and grow old with him. I don’t want this to be over. Please, please, _please!_

I kick at the chair, frustrated and angry and so _so_ sad that this is it. I’m about to _die_ and it’s the last thing in the world I want to happen. There’s so much life left to live and I’m going to miss it.

Why did it all have to end? Looking back on all of it now, my life wasn’t _that_ bad. Sure my mom is selfish and my dad is emotionally unavailable. But I had Sammy. I had Cas and my best friend, Benny.

“Hey, dumb ass.” My head whips around at the sound of Benny’s voice. He’s standing in the doorway with his arm in a sling and his face black and blue and bloody. He walks over to the window and looks out on the parking lot. “You look like shit.” He doesn’t look at me though. “I broke my arm trying to get to you, you know. I fell trying to get down the rocks to the bottom. Everyone else ran, but I couldn’t just leave you there; it’s partly my fault you were down there.”

He still won’t look at me. I don’t blame him, though. “There wasn’t anything you could’ve done to stop it,” I say to him as I lean against the edge of the bed and watch him closely, his every move is stiff and pained.

“I should’ve noticed sooner—I should’ve seen it. I’m sorry, Dean. I’m so _so_ sorry.” He leans against the window frame and rests his forehead on the glass. Maybe I should’ve asked for help, but he had his own problems to deal with. He couldn’t have done much—if anything—anyway. No one could have—that’s the _point._

He turns abruptly and strides to the side of the bed, looking at me intensely—almost angrily. I watch him, somehow knowing what he’s about to say. Knowing that he knows…he saw it, after all.

“It’s been bothering me since it happened, man, and I know I’ll never get an answer but…I’ve got to ask.” He pauses a little too long as his eyes sharpen, trained on me as they narrow. "Why’d you do it, Dean? Why’d you jump?”


End file.
